“Fine. You can put up as many defensive planter boxes as you want around the entry and exit points, but each planter will cost you a two-hour session on my couch.
"Not two hours of random, unimportant minutiae or arguments centered around fantasy football or coding.
"A real session, at least once a week, discussing feelings and this deep-seated paranoia you have about satellites.”
Nasa didn't even hesitate when he stuck his hand out to shake on it.
“Deal.”
“What?” Dr. Thompson's jaw slackened briefly, unable to school his expression quick enough to hide his surprise.
“You heard me. There are eight doorways vulnerable to a breach; I figure you want some elbow room between the planter and the door itself, so four planters per door which adds up to sixty-four hours of you listening to me talk about my feelings.”
Dr. Thompson rapidly blinked like an owl, so stunned he was momentarily speechless.
“Who are you, and what have you done with the man who has refused any and all therapy with extreme prejudice, who believes real men express their feelings through violent first-person shooter video games?”
Dillon rolled her lips under her teeth and bit down to stem her laughter at the doctor's incredulity.
She felt rather surprised herself, having heard Nasa say only a short while ago that he had no interest in therapy because he knew exactly how to handle his demons. Surely, the concrete planters weren't that important.
“I feel very annoyed right now, doctor,” Nasa declared with great sincerity.
After a brief moment of silence, Dr. Thompson shook his head in amazement.
“Miss DeLoughrey, I will personally see to it that any future appointments you have with Dr. White are free of charge.”
It was Dillon's turn to be surprised, and while she wasn't going to argue—therapy wasn't cheap—she had to know.
“Why?”
“I have practically begged Nasa to come in for regular sessions, and I am not the type of man to beg.” Dillon silently agreed. Dr. Thompson definitely didn't seem the type.
“Now, I have sixty-four hours coming to me because Nasa likes the way you defend your territory, and all it cost me was some minor negotiation and a potential eyesore in front of my building. We're going to call it services rendered for the good of mankind.”
“I also feel like putting my boot up your ass, jerkoff,” Nasa interrupted rudely, which only made Dr. Thompson grin like a sugar-deprived boy who'd been given a giant red slushie.
Dr. White appeared seconds later, somehow managing to glide silently across the hardwood floor in a strappy pair of white heels, looking fresh and immaculately clean in her white suede pencil skirt and her ruffled white blouse.
“Is it happening?” Dr. White asked, looking at Nasa with wide eyes, her manicured hands clasped to her chest in hope. “Is hell freezing over?”
“Laugh it up,” Nasa warned. “Here I am, willing to let Teague pop my therapy cherry so I can put up some goddamn barriers that will prevent one of your stalker asshole patients from driving their truck through the front door, and y'all are giving me shit. I feel very attacked and seriously unappreciated right now.”
Dr. White smiled brilliantly, bouncing on her toes with a girly squeal of delight. “I heard it! He said, 'I feel,' twice! Oh, my god, Teague, it's really happening!”
“If you're done taking the piss,” Nasa snapped rudely. “You have an actual patient in need of your professional insights.”
Dr. White's expression of delight only brightened. “A patient I'm very glad to see. Hello, Dillon.”
“Hi,” Dillon answered, feeling none of the usual anxiety she had before her sessions. Whether it was the effect of holding Nasa's hand, the banter between the three people who clearly knew each other well, or the soothing energy of the waiting room, Dillon couldn't say. But when Dr. White asked her if she was ready, Dillon said yes and meant it.
Before he let her go, Nasa gave her a penetrating look, all sarcasm and teasing aside.
“I'll be here when you're done.”
“You don't have to wait for me,” Dillon said, purely out of habit to remind people she was strong and capable of standing on her own.
He gave her every ounce of his gaze, his tone dropping to the unique, special rumble that hadn't yet failed to soothe her. It wasn't as smooth or velvety as Dr. Thompson's, but it didn't lessen the impact it had on her.
“One thousand feet. I'll be here.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nasa watched Dillon disappear around the corner, glad to see the relaxed set of her shoulders, and the easy swing of her denim-clad hips.
Last night was the first time in nine days Dillon hadn't set off the motion sensor alarm after having come awake due to a nightmare.
Nasa had barely slept himself, lying in his bed with his fingers laced behind his head, watching the flatscreen on the ceiling and the image of Dillon sleeping two floors above him.
She’d slept on her back, one hand curled up by her cheek, the dark blue sheets emphasizing her fair golden skin and the shine of her hair.
She'd even worn an ice blue tank top and a pair of matching panties to bed, knowing full well at any minute he could tune in and watch her.
Every day, Dillon did things to let him know she was getting more comfortable in his world.
Best of all, their connection was getting stronger. Slowly but surely, Dillon was softening toward him.
Trusting him. Responding to the deeper timbre of his voice, allowing him to take the lead, to take care of her. Cooking for her had been a huge step, and not making so much as a squeak of protest when he'd called to get an appointment for her with Collette was another.
The way Dillon responded to Teague just a few minutes ago was only mildly annoying. The guy was too damn handsome for his own good, and even more of a Dom than Nasa was.
Nasa suffered a moment
